Subcontinental Submarine

It was a work trip in India that brought me to this god-forsaken experience. First time in the subcontinent, and I had been practicing since a young age (only engaging the finest purveyors of hot curries). Nothing was to prepare me for the onslaught my squid's eye was to endure.

I was taken out the first night by a couple of colleagues to a great restaurant when we were in Bangalore. Being the tough, curry-eating strongman I was, I decided to really show off, ordering the hottest dish, and sending it back twice for more heat. Error Number One.

Error Number Two was not drinking enough water that evening. I sucked down about a squillion Kingfishers (that all should have come with a health warning) which only began to build up with aforementioned edible poop (curry).

As we left the restaurant, I felt wonderful -- whether my body was preparing for the complete reverse that was about to begin, or because I genuinely enjoyed the meal, who knew? But it became clear at 5:43 the next morning; I awoke to a slight stomach tingling and a little churn. I decided it was time to take my first shit in India, a rite of passage. Or so I saw it.

As I rolled out of bed and toward the toilet, it became clear this was no average shit. I had the distinct feeling that a hot iron rod had been shoved up my rectum and was now prodding my small intestine. Then came the quiver, the pre-movement of my expulsion hole. That's when I knew this was to be a shaker. A shit the god's couldn't handle.

I hurried into the bathroom, not bothering to close the door. My pants were immediately at my knees, and I could already smell the unholy gravy about to spill from my asshole at a great rate of knots. The motion of bending to sit on the toilet must have tightened my eye and compressed my rectum, for I had no control left. What was coming was already there. As I bent down to sit, my asshole let go of what can only be described to liken piercing a freshly shaken beer can. All water. Slowly, it started to build, and over ten seconds of endless watering with my muddy butt pee, the dear Lord decided to let me go.

I felt it. The Trojan Horse of the pre-shit water had hidden it well. My stomach cramped. I gripped the towel rail on my left and pushed against the wall on my right. Golf balls started hailing down into the porcelain bus. As I let them go, they bounced and created somewhat of a mystical fog of shit that lined everything within reach. Shit was exploding out of my shitter like lava from a volcano. The seat between my legs was brown. My thighs were brown. I even copped a blotch on my chin when I attempted to investigate what the hell was coming out of my pooper.

Then the burn hit. THE BURN. Somebody put it out! Every bit of liquid that graced the edge of my ring was eating away at my hole like acid. I screamed in pain, sweating profusely, shaking uncontrollably.

Thats right: Hand on each side. Crying. Yelling. Shaking as this devil made its way out my hole.

Unfortunately my yelling woke up my colleague in the room next door. Thinking I was being sexually assaulted (I classify them the same due to the damage to my sphincter), he managed to get into my room after asking for a key at Reception.

By this time I was done. Shit was everywhere. On the seat. On the floor. A spray of mist on the walls. I found a piece on my chin. Then I realized that I was lying in it, like some spastic-born calf wallowing in the dirt. I was a beached whale, covered in fecal matter and moaning as if I'd had my penis slit with a blunt knife. Nothing will ever let me get over the look of my penis. Little do we men realize how close the testicles and shaft are to the epicenter. I had shit on my dick. My own shit.

My colleague came into the bathroom and saw what I had become: a naked man (somehow my pants had come off) lying in a scene of murderous body waste. He looked at me and vomited.

Suddenly, twice the mess.

He crawled out of my room while I called after him: "I'M THO THORRY!"

Security and the cleaners arrived a few minutes later, with me still paralyzed. They prodded a broom stick at me in order to rescue me from this quicksand of shit.

Vomit greeted them on the floor of the bathroom's entrance. And here I stood, naked, in a hotel room, with shit covering both the bathroom and a large percentage of my body, while two maids wrapped towels around me.

Welcome to India. Don't challenge a chef.

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4 Comments on "Subcontinental Submarine"

I once ordered a hot dish in a Thai restaurant and foolishly told the waitress I would really like it extra hot. I didn't have any bowel problems the next day but I did have to leave the table several times to blow my nose.

The most gut wrenching shit I ever took was in the middle of the night after having dined at a Laotian couple's home on a dish that was composed of mostly little inch long chilies. It was delicious but God, it was hot.

The illustration reminds me of a water fountain in the barracks at Keflavik, Iceland after some drunk spewed his beef stew in it while getting a drink of water. It was in the early morning gloom and I had lowered my face to get a drink myself before I discovered the mess. My face was only about two inches from the spew when its aroma gave it away! Ewww!!

This story is pretty believable up until the security part--come on, it could not have been THAT bad, right? Or maybe I'm just really jaded because I work in a hospital and deal with poop pretty much every day.

I think the ending was a bit embellished, too, but I enjoyed reading it a great deal. I wish the writer had given us an identity.

In our town, there is a teriyaki restaurant that gives the diner the option to eat the meal mild, medium, or hot. I usually order medium-hot, more toward hot, which means the food is hot, because I will eat hot food. I like to know I'm eating something.

If you use the restrooms in this place you have to walk back behind the kitchen. Along the way you pass a seven foot high set of shelves of canned goods. On the third shelf up is the most Rooster (Sriracha) sauce that I have ever seen in my entire life. There are jars of it that must be one gallon large. I wonder how much of it the restaurant goes through in the course of a month. Boy, I love that Rooster sauce. I think it's perfect!

I love the Rooster sauce also. I buy it in about pint containers but the store in which I shop sells it in gallon sizes. They supply a lot of local restaurants so they have a massive display of it.

I recently shopped at Patel Brothers, an Indian market in Nashville, and bought a 7 oz. packet of what was labeled, "Chilli powder, extra hot." Their spice selection is tremendous and they weren't fooling about the heat of the chilli powder. Delicious though!

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